


Golden morning

by imsfire



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Camping, F/M, Fluff, Gen, going to the WOMAD festival, mood piece, sunny mornings and waking up next to the one you love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:50:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19007083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsfire/pseuds/imsfire
Summary: The interior of the tent was getting hot already, filling up with sunshine.  She sat up carefully in her sleeping-bag tube, yawning.  She rocked forward onto her knees and crawled across to the opening to unzip the inner and then the outer flaps, and peek out.  There was a faint smell of eggs frying, mingling with the scent of trampled grass and a hint of festival mud.Jyn and Cassian waking up in the festival campsite at WOMAD.





	Golden morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starbird/gifts).



> A little present for Starbird, who was asking for a camping AU!

Jyn knew it had been a mistake to buy the yellow tent for WOMAD.  Yes, it showed up better in the packed festival camping field; even after dark, when the sea of tents was lit only by strings of lights hung along the main thoroughfares , its bright colour was easy to spot.  When they’d finally crawled away at well after midnight last night after the final act in the big blue Siam Tent, they’d found their way home without difficulty.  Just past the fire point, on the far side of the campervan with the Welsh Dragon flag; there it was, their little spot of gold in the crowded darkness. 

They’d felt their way past countless trip hazards and unseen snorers, past gigglers and smokers and wee-small-hours conversationalists, and wriggled inside the tent to haul off their boots and collapse into their sleeping bags.

But come morning, come six am and the light of dawn clearing the edge of the woodland, their bright little tent was like a bell of light.  No chance at all of escaping the brilliance of day.  Sleep in?  Ha.

The first act didn’t start till noon.  There was early-morning yoga on offer, of course, because what self-respecting festival doesn’t have a yoga class at some point? - and a choral singing group was scheduled to meet in the arboretum at ten.  And all over the festival site there would be coffee brewing and tea urns heating up, and every possible breakfast choice to be purchased, from muesli and yogurt to egg-and-chip butties with curry sauce.  Or cake.  She could remember doing that one year, having just cake for breakfast.  Carrot and walnut with lemon cheese topping.  Mmmmm.

Somehow in her sleep she’d managed to roll over, despite the stricture of being caught in a narrow sarcophagus-shaped tube, and when she woke into the golden morning, she was cuddled-in, safely and somewhat ridiculously, right up under Cassian’s arm, with her nose pressed against his side.

The ground was still hard and the canvas still let in all the light, and she’d had about five hours sleep at best, but a great peace filled her.  Morning, bright sunshiny morning, with birds singing outside and Cassian all warm and slightly sweaty, and breathing very slowly, still deep in sleep, beside her. 

She propped herself up on her elbows and watched him for a while.  The sunlight filtering through the yellow tent made him look golden, like some kind of magical statue in a movie.  She wanted to stroke his moustache and kiss him awake; but she wanted to let him sleep as well.  She watched instead and thought about the breakfast options, the possibility of hauling her arse to yoga, or just to the door of the tent to open the zip and see the day.

There were some healthy snacks jumbled in one corner of the tent; juice boxes, a bag of apples, some oatcakes and mixed nuts.  Enough for a perfectly good light breakfast, in fact.  Then maybe Second Breakfast could justifiably be cake and coffee. 

The interior of the tent was getting hot already, filling up with sunshine.  Jyn sat up carefully in her sleeping-bag tube, yawning.  She rocked forward onto her knees and crawled across to the opening to unzip the inner and then the outer flaps, and peek out.

The chaos of tents all around was like a frozen sea of colours, humpy shapes and classic scouts’ tents, A-frames, dome tents and tunnel-tents.  Here and there a small flag or a string of bunting hung softly in the morning stillness.  Just a few voices, hushed and sleepy, and somewhere nearby but unseen amid the waves of canvas, she could make out the familiar hiss of a camping gaz stove burner, and the noise of someone cleaning their teeth vigorously.  There was a faint smell of eggs frying, mingling with the scent of trampled grass and a hint of festival mud.  

At the base of their tent entrance a tuft of clover held up small white flowers to the sun.

Jyn lay down again, resting her chin on her forearms, and studied the clover blossom. 

Such tiny little flowerlets, the shape of crescent moons.  Creamy white with a tinge of purple at the base,  The florets gathered onto a single stem and opened out in a shape like a minuscule firework explosion.  All around it, fresh green clover leaves; three-lobes, three-lobes, she searched for a four-lobed clover but none turned up.  Perhaps she had luck enough already today. 

After all, no-one here cared if she got up on time.  No-one cared if her hair was untidy, or even if she’d slept in her clothes.  No-one cared if she ate cake all day, if she had spiced cider and garlic bread for lunch, danced for six hours straight, went to bed at one am.  For these three days, here in a field in Wiltshire, a small temporary city of people would all live and let live, and dance and love and laugh, would share the journey of their lives and forget the pressure to have and get and do and get ahead.  The spirit of Albion, Jyn thought sleepily, and of the Camino Real.     

Cassian was just as untidy as her, and as likely to eat the weirdest and the best food, and dance as though no-one was watching.  She looked round at him, still sleeping, in his jeans and a t-shirt with _Oaxaca_ on the front.  Her wonderful, lovely man, her dearest Cassian.

And it was Saturday at WOMAD.  Two whole days of glorious music still ahead of them.

“Mmmph,” said Cassian, reaching into the space she’d vacated; and she rolled over and crawled back to his side, and snuggled in again, in the golden morning.


End file.
